


The Long and Short of It

by Adenil



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hair Brushing, Ineffably Soft, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: Hair was a funny thing. Humans—although they had not very much of it, and only in strategic locations—tended to fuss over it something awful. Styles came and went before Aziraphale could notice their passing. Humans wore their hair short, long, very long indeed, shaved tight to the scalp, done up in braids, with powder on it, stuck full of pins, twisted with hot irons, or flattened again with a different shape of hot iron. He could hardly keep up with it all and so he resolved not to bother.





	The Long and Short of It

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe how much I love these two nerds.

Hair was a funny thing. Humans—although they had not very much of it, and only in strategic locations—tended to fuss over it something awful. Styles came and went before Aziraphale could notice their passing. Humans wore their hair short, long, very long indeed, shaved tight to the scalp, done up in braids, with powder on it, stuck full of pins, twisted with hot irons, or flattened again with a different shape of hot iron. He could hardly keep up with it all and so he resolved not to bother.

Facial hair was a bit more manageable for him. He’d grown out sideburns a few times, and there was a memorable seven years when he’d had a goatee and Crowley had met up with him once a week to beg him to do away with it, “Or I won’t bother with you again, Angel. See if I don’t.” But of course Crowley would always be back the next week with a sour mouth and rousing conversation or two. Aziraphale had kept that particular tuft of chin hair a bit longer than was stylishly-necessary because he quite enjoyed his old friend’s pained look.

But the hair atop his head stayed short, curly, and white. He’d ordered the same haircut at the barber once per month since barbers had been invented (and he always spent a miracle making it precisely one centimeter longer the day before he went in to have it trimmed). For Aziraphale hair was a funny thing that humans indulged in and he would play along, to a point, but never really give himself over to it. He preferred to save his indulgences for other things.

Nevertheless his awareness of hair was enough that he noticed Crowley.

Crowley was a bit vain when it came to hair, and other things too, of course. (For his part Aziraphale would deny his own vanity to Heaven and back, never mind in what condition he maintained his jackets.) The hair styles were most noticeable on Crowley, though, perhaps because of the color. Such a bright red was certainly eye-catching, Aziraphale often told himself. It was only natural that his gaze should wander over those tumbling locks, tight curls, or swept back coifs. In whatever form Crowley’s hair found itself that day Aziraphale would equally find himself noticing it. Admiring it, occasionally, of course. But also using it to gauge Crowley’s moods.

He’d noticed it first in Rome. Early Rome, just a scant few years after good old Jesus Christ kicked off. The human world kept on moving forward and getting into all manner of trouble and causing him a mighty headache, but they did invent a few new alcohols so it wasn’t all bad. Regardless, Aziraphale had only encountered the demon four times at this point. Hardly enough to form an impression of him (beyond “friendly”). He likely wouldn’t have recognized Crowley if the demon hadn’t spoken, what with his short, so-very-short hair and the glasses. The glasses were quite new, but the hair…the hair had been a sign.

At the time Aziraphale hadn’t known what, precisely, it was a sign _of_ , although his angelic sign-senses were tingling madly. At the time he’d only noticed that Crowley was a bit short with the lovely bartender and that his smiles for Aziraphale were a bit more strained than they had been previously.

Later, when he had added up all the evidence into the mental catalogue of hair lengths and moods that expanded over the millennia, he would categorize this particular short and curly style as indicative of a “rough patch” in Crowley’s life.

He never did get around to asking what that particular rough patch was about—how could one say that they kept obsessive track of their best friend’s hair styles in order to determine whether he was quite enjoying himself or not? No, best not to mention it. He could guess, at any rate, given how Crowley had stood frowning near the crucifixion the entire time until the humans knocked the cross down again some days later and carried it away with its accompanying body. Aziraphale had stood with him, of course, because what else was he to do?

Hair was a funny thing, and so was dear Crowley. He would quite often go where the hairstyles most suited his mood. Oftener he would stay right where he was but choose an odd style, one not-quite-in-date or a bit-to-the-left-of-typical. Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley had no idea that he wore his feelings openly atop his head, but nevertheless the pattern held. The longer the locks the more comfortable Crowley was feeling. Shorter could spell any number of things, depending on accompanying style, but none of them were really very good.

Aziraphale had been a bit worried when short styles for men came back into fashion, but apparently sweeping it back had been enough to indicate a sort of neutral mood for dear Crowley. _Things aren’t peachy, but they’re alright. I could grow to accept this state of being,_ his hair seemed to say. Aziraphale, who had lived through Crowley’s buzz cut phase, took what he could get.

He was still surprised—quite pleasantly so—when eight months to the day after Armageddon fizzled like a wet match Crowley sauntered into his book shop with his hair lightly brushing the tops of his shoulders.

“Oh!” Aziraphale could not quite swallow his astonishment before it manifested.

Crowley’s eyebrow tipped up from behind his sunglasses and waggled a bit. “What? Something on my face?”

“No, no. It’s not that at all.”

“Then what is it?” He looked down at himself, concern in the twist of his mouth.

“Is-is that a new jacket?” Aziraphale tried.

“Wore it yesterday.”

“Mm. The scarf?”

“Had this since ’91.”

“Which century?”

“Last. Remember that big wall that everyone was so testy about? Got it off a lad with a sledgehammer. Everyone was in a bit of a sharing mood.”

“Ah. Yes.” Crowley had told him that story before whilst vociferously protesting that he hadn’t been the one to provide the sledgehammer, no really, he hadn’t. It wasn’t a trade, he’d insisted. More of a thieving trick, really. And Aziraphale had nodded sagely and chalked up another one in the _Crowley is Secretly Good_ column.

“Well,” Aziraphale tried again. “Something is a bit different about you. Can’t put my finger on it, but it suits you.”

Crowley’s smile beamed quite a bit brighter than the sun, and at least four times brighter than the Holy Spirit.

 

\--

 

They’d taken to trading off who hosted their evening soiree. Most often they began their evening by going out. Aziraphale knew all the best places for a bite to eat for him and a hot coffee for his friend. Crowley had been attempting to pique his interest in cinema. (“Movies, Angel. It hasn’t been called the cinema for decades.”) Unfortunately Aziraphale didn’t quite “get it” and Crowley had soon admitted defeat and gone back to the old standby of live theatre. It was after such an outing to a rather bizarre performance of Romeo and Juliet where everyone had been dressed as dinosaurs that the two found themselves stumbling back to Crowley’s flat in a state of uproarious laughter.

“And can you believe,” Aziraphale gasped out as he fell against the wall, one hand over his mouth and the other resting atop his stomach in a half-hearted attempt to quell the laughter. “They think there were _really_ creatures that ran about with a giant head full of teeth and _tiny little arms_!? Like this!”

He gestured with his hands like a mock Tyrannosaurus and Crowley joined him, the both of them holding their hands like bent claws, elbows tucked against their ribs, Crowley snarling with a few too many teeth and Aziraphale struggling to look like a very serious dinosaur. They dissolved into a fit of giggles and Crowley turned back to the door. He dug around in his pocket for his key, still snickering to himself.

Aziraphale took it upon himself to admire the moment. It was a very human moment. Quite corporeal, with Crowley looking for his key as if he weren’t capable of simply opening the door with a quick miracle, and Aziraphale himself leaning back against the wall with his hands now folded behind him at the small of his back.

Crowley had tied up his hair. A “man bun” he’d called it, a truly frightening turn of phrase which Aziraphale nevertheless accepted as gospel because Crowley had never really done much lying to him. When they had begun their evening the man bun had been quite neatly combed back. But now, towards the midpoint of their revelry, a few red strands had fallen loose. As Crowley tipped his head forward to get a better angle at his pocket one of the strands freed itself completely from the confines of its tie and reached forward to brush against Crowley’s nose. The strand had a definite curl to it. A lovely little curl. Very soft.

Before he could think better of it—or indeed, think about it at all—Aziraphale reached out and ducked his finger under that curl. He pushed it back, his finger a few scant millimeters above Crowley’s warm skin, and tucked the curl behind his friend’s ear again.

Crowley glanced at him, yellow eyes still bright and full of mirth behind his sunglasses. He had his key in his hand now and he opened the door, ushering Aziraphale inside.

“I’ve been trying a new thing I think you’ll like,” Crowley said as he pushed Aziraphale through the garden and into the lounging room. He always tried to get Aziraphale past the plants as quickly as possible, as if afraid of getting too much love on them. “It’s called an ice cream delivery service.”

“Ooh, that does sound lovely.”

“Make yourself comfortable and I’ll grab the bowls. And whiskey, I think. That should go well with the caramel swirl…”

He wandered off, muttering to himself about drink pairings. Aziraphale waited until he was around the corner before stepping back into the garden and whispering a few sweet nothings to the plants.

By the time Crowley had returned the plants were all looking lush and lovely and altogether happy, and Aziraphale had found his seat on the terribly uncomfortable couch. The damnable thing was all metal and hard lines, and Aziraphale had long ago brought over one of his favorite brown pillows from his book store. It matched absolutely nothing in Crowley’s flat but it did feel nice to lean upon. He tucked it against his side to soften the hardness of the couch and smiled as Crowley sauntered in with a stack of containers, bowls, cups, and spoons precariously towering in one hand and three bottles each filled with a different color of liquid in the other.

Crowley set them down on the low coffee table. With a wave of his hand the lids popped off the tops of the tubs of ice cream. He flopped onto the couch beside Aziraphale, his spindly legs landing at odd angles like thrown sticks, and began to spoon the ice cream into bowls.

“It’s quite a remarkable thing,” Crowley continued from where he’d left the conversation. “Just pop online and plug in your address and they send you an ice chest packed with all different flavors.”

“Ah. A bit like with milk?”

“That was ages ago. No one gets milk delivered anymore, and certainly never by internet. They have wine delivery, though, but it’s all terrible.”

“Hm. A shame.”

“Here. Start with this.”

Crowley handed him a bowl of pale pink ice cream speared through with a gleaming silver spoon. Aziraphale took it happily, and then accepted a glass of rum when Crowley offered that as well.

Strawberry. A fine flavor. Soft and sweet, with a taste reminiscent of humid summer days. Aziraphale had never gone strawberry picking but he had read about it and the smooth, creamy taste reminded him of well-loved books and feeling a bit warmer than normal, but not unpleasantly so.

His dear friend leaned back against the other arm of the couch, one still-booted foot wedged against the coffee table, his elbows pointing out at odd angles as he held his own bowl of strawberry ice cream towards his face. Aziraphale slid his gaze over Crowley and before he had quite finished his second bite Crowley had already halfway emptied his bowl. It went like that. When Crowley did eat he did it fast, and more often than not he spent their meals staring at Aziraphale until he was done. Aziraphale didn’t much mind being watched. He did a bit of watching himself, when the mood struck him (as it often did).

Aziraphale looked down at his ice cream as he took another bite, and then back to Crowley who had finished his and was trailing his spoon around the concave shell of the bowl. With the angle his head was at he could have been looking down at the bowl or at Aziraphale.

Pink ice cream. Red hair. Such beautiful colors. Those were the colors of passion and of strength. It was interesting as well that no matter how hard Crowley tried to dress all in black like a shadow he always carried with him a pop of color. Or rather, more than one pop. Those lovely eyes were bright as anything when not hidden behind his glasses.

They sampled the ice cream and fiery alcohols well into the night as they regaled each other with tales both old and new. The wonderful thing about having such a dear and familiar friend, Aziraphale often thought, was that one could tell the same story and still be listened to. Crowley had a way of listening with his entire body that made Aziraphale feel a bit full of himself, but never did he mind the feeling. Vanity wasn’t quite a sin, after all.

It was late—or rather, early, the sun was making the sky gray again along the edges—when they had finished their sampling. The ice cream had, of course, stayed perfectly frozen, creamy, delicious, and most enjoyable but what Aziraphale enjoyed even more was watching Crowley’s hair slowly escape its bonds. There was now little left that would have indicated the dear man had once looked put-together. His curling locks sprung forth at odd angles, much like his limbs, some of them tickling at his ears and others curving around his jaw. A particularly bold strand twisted down Crowley’s forehead like a vining plant seeking purchase. Aziraphale had started smiling at some point during the evening and he didn’t quite know how to stop it.

Crowley tipped his head back against the couch and threw both feet on the table one right after the other. _Thump, thump_. And he crossed them at the ankles. He tipped his head to look at Aziraphale and his glasses slipped down his nose. That vining strand of hair seemed to reach desperately for them as if to catch them, but missed. The glasses tumbled down and landed folded between them.

“…What?” Crowley asked. There was concern in his voice but hardly any in his eyes, which still held that listening-with-his-whole-being look.

“Oh, nothing, my dear.”

“No, no. It’s not nothing or you wouldn’t be giving me…that.” Crowley gestured at his face.

Aziraphale lifted his hands, concerned, and poked around at his own cheeks. The smile was perhaps a bit wider than circumstance demanded but it was nothing Crowley hadn’t tolerated from him before. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind.” Crowley turned his head away. His eyes slipped shut.

This may have been a petulant move—it was difficult to tell where petulance ended and relaxation began with the demon—but it gave Aziraphale the advantage of being able to gaze at Crowley openly now. His hair really was a right mess. The tie had worked its way halfway down and appeared to have twisted up in the curls. It would likely be painful to remove later.

Well, that was nothing Aziraphale couldn’t help with. He gently picked up Crowley’s glasses and set them on the table beside their dirty dishes. Then he scooted a bit closer to his friend. Crowley made a soft noise as he did so, not quite a hum, not quite a complaint. But he didn’t turn his head nor did acknowledge Aziraphale beyond that, and so Aziraphale set to work undoing the tangle.

Crowley’s hair was soft. Aziraphale had felt it a few times before. Perhaps sixteen times, if he was counting, and this seventeenth time was no different. Apparently a daily regimen of evil temptation and a quick rinse under the brimstone was enough to give Crowley smooth, luxurious locks. Aziraphale began with the hair tie, carefully twisting the elastic this way and that to free each strand of hair without pulling too hard. He worked it down and off the flippant bottoms of Crowley’s tresses and then slid the tie onto his own wrist for safe keeping.

That was all he had intended to do. Offer a bit of help to his dear old friend and prevent strained hair follicles in the morning. But now that he had his fingers buried in Crowley’s hair he realized it really was quite tangled. Dreadfully so. And what sort of friend would he be if he didn’t finish the assistance he had begun?

He started at the bottom. Each curl seemed mated with its nearest neighbor—some in throes of ecstasy, others of torment. The knots were tighter than they had any right to be. But Aziraphale set himself to work and slowly made his way up the long sweep of Crowley’s beautiful hair towards the roots.

Midway through Crowley turned a bit so that Aziraphale could tug a few trapped strands out from underneath his neck. He ran his fingers from nape to end and hummed.

“Most helpful, my dear. Thank you.”

It was the first thing either of them had said since he’d begun his impromptu finger-combing, but instead of breaking the moment the words seemed to cement it in place. Crowley let out another soft humming noise and turned his face against the back of the couch to give Aziraphale full reign over his hair.

Aziraphale picked up each curl individually and placed it where it most wanted to lie. He had a bit of a struggle getting himself to slide that particular curl from Crowley’s forehead back behind his ear, but he made himself do it.

In the end Crowley’s hair fell like a soft blanket. Gentle waves crested. With his hair so neatly arranged Aziraphale had a wonderful time running his fingers through it again and again. Perhaps he had passed the point of merely helping his good friend and was instead exercising a bit of an indulgence in himself. Regardless, Crowley did not seem to mind. He seemed to revel in it, in fact. There was a particular moment each time Aziraphale’s fingers passed the midway point where Crowley would shiver every-so-slightly, as if there were still ice cream chilling that devilish tongue.

After a while of this—a long, long while in which the sun fully rose over a foggy London morning—Aziraphale gathered Crowley’s hair and twisted it in his hand. He laid the coil over Crowley’s shoulder and found himself gazing at the nape of Crowley’s neck. There were a few short hairs there. The odd hairs that never grow out all the way but instead broke off a bit shorter than the rest. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley knew about them; he wondered if Crowley would have been offended by their presence, by the fact that his stylish façade was not-quite-perfect.

Perfect enough, however, for Aziraphale to lean down and press his lips just beneath those fine, short little hairs.

Crowley sighed as he did it. Didn’t stiffen, as Aziraphale feared he might (or at least realized soon enough that he should have feared). Aziraphale took it as a good sign and place one more soft kiss there before leaning back.

He returned to his side of the couch and fluffed up his pillow. “Well,” he said, picking at the brown pillow case as if to remove lint even though they both knew very well there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust in Crowley’s entire flat. “I must be getting back to the shop. Thank you, my dear, for such a lovely evening.”

Crowley huffed and rolled back over. He fixed Aziraphale with a look that was half glare and half wonder. “Do you need a ride?”

“That’s quite alright. I know you have a few temptations to get up to this morning.”

Crowley chuckled. He’d pulled his feet up onto the couch and his knees against his chest. “You know me so well.”

Aziraphale smiled. He couldn’t help it. “I’ll catch the bus. See you this evening?”

“Mm, picnic in the park, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There’s going to be an operetta there!”

Crowley didn’t appear to quite share his enthusiasm but he still returned the smile. “Can’t wait,” he said, only a bit sarcastically. “It sounds…lovely.”

 

\--

 

Aziraphale had arrived first to set up their blanket and basket. He’d brought a fine bottle of the red, and an equally fine bottle of the white, plus an assortment of cheeses, bread, grapes, and jams. It was all quite a bit more than could have reasonably fit in a basket of that size but he didn’t think anyone would notice.

He had just finished pouring them both a glass of wine when he heard Crowley calling to him.

Aziraphale turned to call back but his words caught somewhere south of his throat. A bit near where his heart would be.

There, at the edge of the park but moving closer, with his hips swaying like tree limbs in a spring breeze, was Crowley. And Crowley was always something worth looking at, to be sure, but at that moment there was quite a bit more of them to look at than was usual, because at that moment his hair was longer than Aziraphale had ever seen.

It cascaded past his neck, over his shoulders, down his back, to settle somewhere near those swaying hips. It was untouched. Unstyled. Simply free and curled and gorgeous, and if it was a bit self-centered of Aziraphale to think that Crowley had left it unstyled for him then he didn’t care a bit. All he could imagine was running his fingers through those long, long tresses, picking up curls and twisting them, letting braids take shape beneath his shaking hands. All he could imagine was Crowley leaning back against him with a sigh, that same soft sigh as last night, while Aziraphale tucked his hair aside and placed loving kisses down his neck.

Crowley sat. He had to move his hair out of the way with his hand in order not to catch it beneath him. He tossed his hair over his shoulder and Aziraphale found himself watching as it tumbled into his dear friend’s lap.

Stunned, Aziraphale followed those strands back up, and up, and up, until his gaze was locked with Crowley’s. There was a smile on Crowley’s lips as he watched Aziraphale struggle for words as if he didn’t have a book shop full of them.

Crowley picked up the long-stemmed glass and swirled the wine. “Starting with the red, are we?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said. “Yes.”

Somewhere distantly the chorus began to sing. Crowley lifted his glass to his lips, covering his smile.

Aziraphale was enraptured. “Yes,” he said again. “The reddest.”


End file.
